


through the patterns we now follow.

by withersake



Category: Transformers: Cyberverse
Genre: Domestic Boyfriends, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Skullcruncher is Best Girl, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29488839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withersake/pseuds/withersake
Summary: Their lights are now off but they were most certainly heading back home.( Or how a typical evening after closing time between Perceptor and Dead End goes. )
Relationships: Dead End/Perceptor (Transformers)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	through the patterns we now follow.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RagingPika](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=RagingPika).



> **Pairings:** Dead End/Perceptor. Hints of background Soundwave/Hot Rod.
> 
> **Warnings:** Mild suggestive themes. Descriptions through the work of a visually-impaired character feeling condescended/treated differently before and after visual impairment but not by their partner.
> 
> **General Notes:** Part of the Cybertronian Card Exchange 2020! I hope you like your gift, Tiina. This is set before the upcoming ‘fourth season’ of Cyberverse but has hints to its premise so possible spoilers are up ahead. If you’d like to avoid that, skip the paragraph that starts with ‘Between the whispers of possible transmissions from long-lost colonies asking’ and skip straight to the paragraph that stars with, ‘This was all so very exciting to hear about, certainly,’ and continue on as normal.
> 
> **Current Notes:** The prompt is as follows: _Dead End x Perceptor - Cyberverse / in Maccadam's bar after closing time, post-war, having some private moment all for themselves._
> 
> And I also recongise that there is a discrepancy with Skullcruncher’s gender — addressed as a male in the show but addressed as a female in Q&As. I’ve opted to go with the latter.

It was closing time at Maccadam’s—

Hmmmm. That’s interesting. Preceptor frowns but it’s more out of habit more than anything else, his expression thoughtful yet surprised before he resumes in mopping up the leftover spills on the surface of the bar counter.

_Even I'm doing it now._

Despite the fact Perceptor had titled the bar New Maccadam and the new bar being in, obviously, a different location, with how the previous location is, ah, now unattainable and considered impossible to reach for most patrons nowadays, many mechs still found themselves calling their new hangout spot Maccadam’s. Almost like it was the old fountain hole and it had never left.

Perceptor didn’t mind. He's doing it too, after all. No sense of throwing meteorite chunks at crystal structures.

It was... How did Chromia once describe it when he spoke with her about this exact phenomenon amongst his patrons and regulars?

Charming, she had said to him. It’s strange, yet charming.

(Then she threw back her tankard of Nightmare Fuel and downed it in one swing. It was an impressive enough display that it had a nearby Dead End whistle in awe and appreciation. Clobber, later on, shyly asked for Chromia’s designation and her favourite drink.)

Charming, he thinks to himself again. Yes. That's a good way to view it. It’s… Charming. Flattering, even, that his new business has some spirit of the former establishment that the others miss or need in their new lives.

A squeak beneath his rag alerts Perceptor that the puddle has been thoroughly dealt with. He moves on to the next stubborn spill (this one made from a mixture of the complimentary jellies, to his annoyance) and where exactly was he in his train of thoughts?

Ah. Yes. Closing time at New Maccadam, often referred to as Maccadam’s.

It had finally closed for the cycle, with the last bots — Hot Rod and Soundwave, tangled together, faces pressed together in an almost-kiss with their fields heated and more honest than either would admit when they both regretfully awake and sober for the next day) stumbling out together. — departing a mere few hours ago. The chairs have been set away. The jukebox has been turned off and unplugged. The bar, loud and teeming earlier, now fallen into a state of a strange quietness that only bars can obtain when there’s no one else there but the staff.

And Perceptor is grateful for the peace and quiet that envelopes the usually lively bar. He really is. Much as he's adapted to using his other sensors to get around, the constant bombardment of voices, music, and other sources of stimuli could get a bit much.

Good thing for Dead End, he thinks with a little smile to himself, feeling the brush of his partner’s field as he just happened to shuffle by, carrying a wash bin’s worth of dirty energon cubes and tankards.

Dead End knew when Perceptor needed to take ‘stock’ on their supplies and take over bartending duties for his partner. He had no issue stepping up to the plate and dealing with their customers for an hour and so. After all, neither of them was known for being loquacious mechs and their patrons knew how to entertain themselves. Perceptor taking a step away from the noise, the excitement, the sheer ruckus wouldn’t be noticed long as someone kept the tankards flowing.

And there were plenty of good reasons for there to be much ruckus for this particular evening. From what he could pick up from drunken conversations — and equally drunken confessions throughout the evening, he thinks to two certain bots in particular, who had tried and failed to be discreet in their latest bout of drama — Perceptor had gleaned that there were many plans being made. Mainly for some bots to start gearing up and expect a call for space exploration in the next few days.

Between the whispers of possible transmissions from long-lost colonies asking for help and troubling reports of the Other Megatron being sighted, despite Astrotraon's ominous promise to keep him in check, many were already turning their attention to the stars. Meterofire and Cosmos’ show is becoming popular again in light of this, many taking their adventures and observations as gospel.

(Much to both Perceptor’s and Ratchet’s dismay. They both still had to schedule that meeting to discuss how to tackle the amount of misinformation floating out there on the transmission boards.)

This was all so very exciting to hear about, certainly, but that’s the start and the end of Perceptor’s involvement, his helping of Ratchet with the issue of misinformation aside. He was more than happy to remain on the ground, thank you very much. He feels like he’s done enough shuttling around in his lifetime since the war began and is glad to have found a calling for himself outside the fields of science and maths and engineering. There are others to pick up the torch, like Wheeljack and Minerva and others.

Besides, he had already carved a place to call his own, with the opening of New Maccadam, often referred to as Maccadam’s. The fact Dead End was by his side helped a lot.

Reminded of his partner, Perceptor increased his proximity sensors to pick up his movements. He smiled when he felt Dead End brush by, absorbed in his work, and was grateful for the extra set of servos. Closing time would be a lot more tedious if not for the company and the aid of him.

He’s reminded of Dead End’s willingness to be on the sidelines when he’s putting away the cleaning supplies, sensors picking up the way the materials in the cabinet are arranged to his preferences. It was those little things that Perceptor appreciated about his partner.

Dead End didn’t mind playing ‘second fiddle’ for Perceptor — as he so described himself to ‘Clobber’ in one of their friendly back-and-forths — and taking a step back when it came to their shared business venture. He was used to following orders and more than content to fall in line and do what was asked. Whether it was from Megatron or Soundwave or, grudgingly enough and if forced to it (as he had been during the Quintessons’ attempted invasion), Hot Rod. (Who, he admitted to Perceptor and Perceptor only one time, was a pretty decent leader. Being less stab-slash-shooty happy and less likely to force mechs into being live bait for the enemies had given Hot Rod a quiet appeal to the Decepticons in those days.)

Perceptor knew there would be some mechs may feel some inferiority, a measure of discontent with the arrangement he and Dead End had but that’s what made Dead End special, Perceptor thinks with fondness and gratitude. He had no problem with being given orders and following them, the type to ‘go with the flow’ as Bumblebee would day and do what he could.

_Besides_ , Dead End has confided to him once when they were alone together, their limbs tangled, their frames burning with a pleasant burn from their earlier activities. _I definitely don’t mind the orders when they’re coming from you. I like taking orders from you. I like it a lot._

Dead End brushed his lips over his while he spoke, his breath smelling of mulled energon and enhancements like titanium. The little smile he offered at the end while he pulled back had was so brief and fleeting that Perceptor was half-sure his scans had incorrectly read the subtle change in Dead End's face.

It was only when Dead End pressed his lips against Perceptor’s, allowing him to taste the mulled energy and titanium shavings, did he trust his sensors again.

From being willing to take over the bar counter so he could recover from his senses from being overwhelmed to bearing the unglamorous burden of pushing tables and chairs away for the cycle, tidying up tipped over stools and seats — There were some things that Dead End would do that made Perceptor’s spark warm in its chamber, knowing what a ‘catch’ his partner is when you make yourself aware of him qualities.

One of them being his persistence, his dogged determination to see something through once he put his processors to it. Dead End quietly suffered through rowdy regulars with exasperated grace night after night. He handled the inventory stock with expertise that only came from centuries of getting used to menial tasks and learning to be fast and to be accurate with it.

Not to mention the way he kept trying to broach a certain topic with Perceptor, time and again. By this point, Perceptor’s patience would have usually be worn thin if someone kept trying to needle him about a subject, especially once he had made his stance clear enough.

The way Dead End persists is… different, however. It’s hard to explain, which is a fault on his part, he acknowledges. The best way to describe it is that it’s clear Dead End is looking out for Perceptor’s well-being while making it clear that he is ready to take a step back if Perceptor no longer wants to talk about it. As a mech of few words himself, Dead End is able to pick up these sorts of cues more easily than, say, Clobber or Wheeljack.

It’s nice to have a thing with his Dead End. Even if it’s something silly as the usual topic about his buffering, or lack thereof.

"Hey, Perce? Can I talk to you about something?"

Ah. Speaking of which— Looks like it’ll be happening tonight. No doubt doing it in hopes he’s in a good enough mood after a successful night like this one.

“Hey now; don't you go tilting that scopes of yours like that, buddy." Perceptor senses Dead End give an emphatic huff of his vents, setting down the garbage bin he’s carrying with more force than needed. "Seriously, Perce. One of these days you’ve got to let me bring you to Ratchet. Let him see what he can do for you and the rust patches.”

Dead End leans against the table or booth he’s next to. “If you don’t want to see Ratchet, that’s alright with me. We can always have that doc from Camien see you. She seemed nice when she dropped by last time. Chromia backs her being a good one too.” Dead End tries his hardest to act casual about his recommendations. They both know he’s been trying to do some research behind Perceptor’s back in the last few days. “Maybe we could try First Aid, even, if we're feeling desperate enough. You seem to like him well enough.”

Perceptor has to turn away and duck his helm, hiding the little smile playing on his face by pretending to wipe at a particularly sticky stain that someone (Cosmos) had left behind. “I’m fine, Dead End. I thank you for your concern but I have the rust patches under control.” ****Dead End huffs and is quiet for a second and Perceptor is certain that Dead End will let the topic die. He usually does if Perceptor insists the rust patches are under control.

Instead, Perceptor finds himself being thrown off when Dead End ends up saying this instead: “At least let me buff up your face? I get worried about those scorch marks and rust spots you’ve been leaving on there. Don’t have a medic pass but doesn’t hurt to give them a touch upper right?”

Hmm… Perceptor takes his time to wring out his washing cloth and hums under his breath, buying himself some time to come up with an appropriate response.

Meeting halfway instead of insisting on the entire thing— That’s certainly a new angle for the subject being spoken about but not new to their relationship. It’s been full of careful compromises, agreed-upon acquiescences to make this work. It’s the first time he’s using it in his attempts to have Perceptor look after himself and, well, Perceptor approves of the chance of tactics. It shows Dead End is learning and adapting.

Perceptor can tell this is a conversation he will not win in the end— Nor does he want to win, now that he finds himself thinking about it. The prospect of having Dead End being so attentive and careful with him is far too appealing than having trying to have a rousing debate on medical benefits and standardised medical care for all bots. That’s one he can have with Ratchet when they finally arrange that meeting.

For now, he inclines his helm in agreement. “Of course,” he answers at last with a smile, his field warm and sincere. “We should perhaps first finish closing the bar. Then we can retire for the night.”

“Sounds good to me.” Dead End grabs the bin again and hefts it up, heading towards the fire exit. “Where did we place those waste receptacles outside again? Further back in the alleyway?”

They soon fall back into an easy silence as they continue to clean up the bar, taking stock of profit and supplies — Jetfire and Sky-Byte’s drinking competitions are either going to make them rich or bankrupt, Dead End had grumbled at one point, making Perceptor chuckle — and it wasn’t long before they closed up proper.

Their lights are now off but they were most certainly heading back home.

———————————————————————————

Though it took some time for both of them to be satisfied with the results, Perceptor and Dead End had converted the rooms above the bar to be their current living quarters. They both agreed to spend the last of their pooled budget to secure the lot and ensure the datawork was on their side, just to be on the safe side.

It might have been a headache to deal with at the start — despite the conflict only ending cycles ago, Perceptor was both impressed and dismayed how tangled the current state of both legal and business systems are for the factions — but it was worth it in the end. Not only did it make it easier for them to stop the occasional bot from trying to sneak in before opening hours, but it was also far more convenient for them to live with each other without judging optics falling on them if they were feeling affectionate to the other.

Not to mention safer for them.

For all some bots will chant Till All Are One until their vents rattle and their vocoders will lockup out of a sense of self-preservation, there was still undeniable tension between the factions. One cannot expect centuries of warfare and combat to be wiped away that easily, now that bars are open and towns are being rebuilt and reestablished with both sides, asked to please work together and not kill the other.

Until they reached that glorious period in their lives where Autobots and Decepticons didn’t have to be reminded to remove their weapons when entering a business or need committees to review actions if crossfaction violence was reported, the couple were going to play it safe rather than sorry.

They descend up the stairs, holding servos all the while but their grips are loose and easy, content to let the other go if they wanted to. Dead End follows behind Perceptor, allowing him to take the lead and he doesn’t mind when Perceptor lets go so he can open the door to their flat. In fact, he takes a step down the stairs to give him breathing room.

That was another thing Perceptor appreciated about Dead End: He didn’t hover. He didn’t coddle. He certainly didn’t scramble and trip over himself if he thought a mere door was going to inconvenience him. Dead End still remembered that Perceptor was a force to be reckoned with, lack of conventional vision or not. Dead End cared for him, it was something he appreciated after all, but he never tried to protect or shield him.

(Something he’s quite thankful for these days. Much as he enjoyed his friends’ company and attention, he found his patience wearing thin and fast more with each passing day

He know that the others like Bumblebee and Grimlock and Arcee only meant well when they fussed over him. It didn’t stop him from feeling annoyed at the continued approach of theirs, treating him like brittle fiberglass. It didn’t stop him from feeling irritated, causing his field to become grated and harsh after a conversation of _Are you okay? Are you sure?_ had occurred again.

He knew he’ll have to have a conversation with them about this soon, sooner rather than later. He cares for them but some boundaries need to be set.)

And Dead End understood it.

Dead End didn’t mind and Perceptor appreciated that a lot. He made it known by having his field flush with a wave of affection, taking Dead End by surprise with the surge of surprise(!) was to be believed. Perceptor wonders himself why he’s feeling so… sentimental and touched. Must be something in the air, reminding him of mulled energon and enhancements like titanium.

The door slides open and they enter their suite. The welcoming smell of what he’s beginning to categorise as ‘home’ washes over them, more familiar and comforting as time goes by.

Skullcruncher is still curled up in her mountain of pillows and blankets where they had last left her before they went to their shift. She’s apparently fast asleep, vents deep and even, but both he and Dead End know better by now.

When they approach her, trying to take gentle steps all the same, one of her optics flickers on and her tail thumps against the floor, causing a potted plant — a thoughtful and sweet gift from Grimlock of all mechs and Perceptor really does need to send him a thank you note for it — to vibrate in its place. She immediately rolls to her stomach as Perceptor kneels before he.

He begins to pet her exposed belly, giving her nightly round of well-deserved belly rubs while he most-certainly-not-fawns over his friend.

“It’s good to see you too,” Perceptor coos to his companion, his servo feeling the grit of her holoscales, the depth and width of her scars from impressive battles of yore. “Have you been a good little terror? I haven’t heard a skitter from any rattraps since you’ve been taking your morning strolls.” Or pesky mechs trying to break into the bar. Making Skullcruncher’s presence known to the regulars has been an amazing idea of Dead End’s.

Skullcruncher, in reply, lets out a happy trilling and also gives out an enthusiastic chortle along with it. There’s no denying the mischief in those optics.

It wasn’t long before Skullcruncher got tired of her nightly dose of affection and shook his servo off, rising from her bed to suddenly scuttle away from him and Dead End. If they weren’t use to her abrupt decisions, it would have knocked them both over in the process.

As it is, Dead End reminds standing and huffs, servos on hips. “She’s a regular menace,” he remarks with a dry tone.

“Be nice,” Perceptor chides, half-distracted as he tries to keep track of Skullcruncher with his proximity sensors. Not that he needs to. He can hear the click-clack, click-clack of her claws anywhere since getting better acquainted with her. “She’s no doubt going to curl up under the memorial capture of Mac for the rest of the evening. Someone made the mistake of mentioning him during our walk this morning.”

“Oh.” Dead End sounds sheepish now. He barely hears Dead End say, “Poor croc.” under his breath but Perceptor does and he agrees with that assessment.

Poor croc. Yes. That would be a good way to describe Skullcruncher on the best of days.

She’s gotten better, now willing to eat and drink what they offer her (long as they sprinkle a healthy portion of Meter-O’s, for some reason). More willing to be taken out for walks during the days when one of them could squeeze it in and had to supervise her movement. Still, it was clear Skullcruncher continued to miss her first owner and one-time friend.

“Still not going to give her a bath tomorrow.” Dead End shudders, no doubt recalling the last time he fought with Skullcruncher and lost the sudsy war. “That’s your job, Perce.”

“I know.” He doesn’t mind it either. It seems felt right to bring her with them, with the passing of Mac and the destruction of Maccadam's. It certainly didn’t seem fair to leave her all by her lonesome in the remains of Iaconus, left to fend for herself.

Kup, graciously enough, had offered to take her in upon learning she was alive, having bonded with the mechamical during the Quintession Invasion, but she seemed intent on staying with Maccadam, wherever it went. He did drop by when he could, spoiling her silly.

“Good. I got that recorded so no passing the buck to me. Now come on, smarty bot. No more stalling.” Dead End gently pushes him toward the direction of their berth. “Get your aft on the slab and I’ll go grab some chamoi wipes. I think I’ve got those stashed in the washrack. Your medicinal stuff is there too, right? Still in the box?”He hummed a confirmation and sat down on their shared berth, leaning back on his elbows while patiently waiting for Dead End to return.

He didn’t have to wait for long. Perceptor heard the washrack’s door slide open and shut. Heard someone approach him— He most certainly felt the way Dead End is now straddling his lap, the mech unabashed and unashamed of their proximity.

They’ve done far more intimate things together in this room so what’s one more act of boldness when no one could see them?

“I hope you have a nice view,” he can’t help but remark, tone droll but field amused.

“Definitely lets me see the best of you.” Dead End is gentle as he cups Perceptor’s face in his servos, mindful of the patches and marks and grooves that concentrate around his defunct optics. “Now hold still, you big sparkling. Seriously, don’t fuss here. It’ll only take a minute or three if we’re both lucky.”

Preceptor then felt something cool and soft on his face, with a hint of tackiness that quickly disappears when Dead End begins polishing in tight, measured circles. It was most definitely the chamoi wipes, coated with the gels and tonics he had been recommended to use for the rust and grime that stuck to his face since he had lost his vision.

He tried to be stoic when the first round of round of tonics was applied to his derma, knowing it’ll smart. It will smart no matter what happens, with how he’s been putting off the routine for so long.

Between work at the bar and consulting over at the burgeoning science center as a favour to Chromia and Windblade, Perceptor had told himself he could do it some other time and never did. He’s paying for it now and it could be worse. He could not have Dead End’s servos all over his face, his attention focused solely on him.

Still he couldn’t help himself when it comes: The cloth goes over a particularly rough patch of rust that he’s been trying to steadfastly ignore and he quickly pays for it; through clenched dentae, he sucked in a breath to try and keep his hiss of pain to himself. His derma sensors flare to life at the sudden, sharp sting that comes from the pure sense of rawness that ails him and his heightened senses.

Dead End picks up on it and pushes his field forward to try and absorb the initial shock and pain. His field isn’t used to unfurling like this, tangling with Perceptor’s, but he tries all the same. It doe help and the gesture, sweet and to the point, touches Perceptor.

Between the soothing field and the sense of relief when most of the rust is cleaned off, allowing sensors beneath them to breathe again, it isn’t long before he finds himself relaxing under his partner’s care, knowing he’s being taken care of. ****

Dead End has always been a methodical mech, one who prefers to let his actions do the talking. He scrubs at stubborn spots with quick efficiency to polish them away, keeping his field tangled with Perceptor so he isn’t alone when the brief flashes of pain and discomfort come.

When he’s satisfied enough, Dead End sets down what must be the last of his wipes and leans back from where he’s straddling Perceptor. He must be examining his work so far and, judging by the way his field warms up, he’s quite happy with the sight before him.

There’s no denying the teasing affection that seeps into his glyphs. “There we go. Now I can see the smarty bot I somehow fell in love with.” Perceptor let his field flick out in mock offense and the sound of Dead End laughing will never stop being a marvel to him.

Said laughter begins to drift further away from him, corresponding with the sensation of Dead End getting off of his lap and heading somewhere to his side, further into their berth. “Pout much as you want, buddy,” Dead End said, “but I’m going to see if we’ve got some of that joint oil that Bumblebee gifted us for the opening. You need it.”

“I’m fine.” It’s said out of reflex more than anything, already missing the feel of Dead End on top of him when he goes to rummage the drawer next to their berth. “There’s no need to fuss over my joints.”

In reply, Dead End’s field pokes back at his, careful and measured and pointed. Perceptor found himself wishing he had his optics functioning again. If only to visibly cycle them for dramatic emphasis.

“I am, Dead End,” he insists. “It may creak a bit tonight but it won’t cause me to offline. I’m more concerned about the scolding I’ll be getting from First Aid when we visit him tomorrow.” ****

The brief flare of _joy_ - _victory_ - _accomplishment_ in Dead End’s field is adorable. There’s no other way to describe the feeling he feels in his spark. More so when Dead End tries to temper it, clearing his vocoder to hide the, ‘Yes!’ he had muttered under his vents.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have tossed out that drunkatron like he was a faulty laser disc,” Dead End says, “This must have been the Pits for your arm’s articulation points.”

“It might have been but I do hope the ‘drunkatron’ is faring much worse than me.”

“Perce—“

“Don’t ‘Perceptor’ me, Dead End. Not this. Calling you my ‘Pet Con’ to my face is a guaranteed one-way ticket for such a drastic action.” Perceptor, once in his life, allows a bit of heat to come into his words. A sharpness he only reserves for when he’s standing up for himself in Decepticons or when others insist on treating him like fiberglass. ****

He’s normally a composed mech. He prides himself on it, even.

Yet Perceptor finds himself recalling the flare of shock and indignation he felt when that washed-up Cube player dared insult his partner like that, right in front of him as they were changing posts at the counter.

Then he remembers the anger that washed over him. When he realised no one was coming to Dead End’s defense. When he realised that hack — one who wasn’t even Hot Rod’s favourite players, which says something — dared to goad to continue the ‘joke’ with poking and prodding his field with their own, sharp and insistent and oil-slick.

When he realised the unsaid implication that he should have found it funny too

Well. It was bad luck for that ex-Cube player that didn’t find it funny.

He didn’t find it funny and he made it damn well known tonight.

Silence now falls between the two of them, anticipating who will do what first. In the end, it’s Dead End, always willing to be the one who will acquiescent in conversations like these. With how his field ripples with _relief_ and there’s a subtle hiss from his frame relaxing, tension he had been keeping to himself up until that point, he doesn’t mind at all for this. Not at all.

Abandoning his quest for the oil, he returns to Perceptor’s side. He doesn’t straddle him, to his disappointment, but he sits next to him, sidling close to his frame until it was impossible for them to tell whose field began and ended.

After a beat of companionable silence, Dead End does remark “… You’re probably going to get reported for this by the rustbucket.” They both know he would be. With how the ‘bot was acting like they had been gravely wounded when tossed to face-first into the streets. ****

“I’ll stand by what I did,” is the first thing that comes to mind and Perceptor sticks with it with a sense of stubborn pride. “It’s a drastic action, yes, but it’s one that I do not regret doing as well. ****

Dead End must have smiled because he let out a breathy chuckle that never failed to make Perceptor’s spark spin just a little faster, his sensors using more processor energy to properly pick up everything about Dead End. “Well… Glad to hear that you’re sticking to your guns, Perce. For what its’ worth? You’re probably going to get a fake reprimand from Hot Rod tomorrow. Then a high five.” ****

Perceptor allowed his field to be enveloped with Dead End's at this point, affection of each other becoming fluid and true, with a sense of quiet and pleased exhaustion of a good night's work finally settling over their tired frames.

One of Dead End’s servos nudged against his and Perceptor opened it in invitation, allowing their servos to intertwine with practice and ease, fingers slotting into the spaces between them like they were always meant to be there.

“—Gnarly calluses,” Dead End notes, whistling as his fingers traced the bumps and patches on Perceptor’s palms. “One of these days you gotta let me buff them out.”

Perceptor hums in casual disagreement, resting his helm against Dead End’s frame. “There’s no need for that. I’m rather proud of them. It shows that I wasn’t ‘soft’ as many had believed I was during the War.” Perceptor knows he sounds defensive at the end and he feels like he should be allowed this. Just once.

The only ones who treated him like a real member of the faction and not a delicate hanger-on was Hot Rod and Dri— Deadlock, who was pretending to be someone called Drift. Most of the others thought him scientist first, fighter second if he was lucky. Others had the gall to act like he couldn’t survive unless he hung to their arm. ****

“Yeah. You were never soft.” Dead Ends sounds proud and his field aligns with that, lighting up in pride for him. “Remember the time you shot that Prosecutor’s tentacle right in the junction? You saved my fender there.”

**  
** Perceptor did and he’s grateful for it. Looking back at it, when he forces himself to, he now realises how close he was to losing his partner there and then. They had only learned of the ‘Dead or Alive’ capture status placed on their helms that day and the What Ifs and Maybes of that day still nag at him, if his thoughts are allowed to stir and with unnecessary fuss.

“I would do it again. With my last shot too.” ****

Dead End nods and Perceptor thinks it’s the end of that but: “Thanks, by the way.” Perceptor tilts his helm to get a better mapping of Dead End’s expression and out of reflex, so used to sight he no longer needs.

Clearing his vocoder, sound almost shy, Dead End says, “Don’t think I said it to you then. Might as well say it now. With, you know, us being a couple and all.”

“Nonsense.” Realising his words could be misconstrued, he’s quick to add, “You shared your rations with me later that cycle. You also volunteered to take first shift for watch when it should have been me. You simply have your own way of communicating with others and I appreciate it.”

The laughter from Dead End, short but honest, makes Perceptor smile back at him. “That’s one way of looking at it, Perce. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he said and, at this moment, Perceptor realises how much Dead End does for him. He recognises it, of course, but it feels like he’s only grasping it now.

With how accommodating Dead End has been and how his spark is so warm for Dead End, Perceptor feels like he could… better show his appreciation for him.

Which is why he suddenly sits up proper and ends up catching Dead End’s attention in the process.

“Huh? Something the matter? If you want, I think we can—“ Dead End chokes on his words when Peceptor is now doing the straddling, servos on his hips, their chassis pressed flush together so their engines synched. “Whoa! What the—?” ****

“I think,” he purred into the audial of Dead End, allowing his searching fingers to hook into seams, taking his time to stroke and pet biolights that he could feel pulse and flicker beneath his careful touch. “Someone else deserves a bit of attention tonight and special attention at that.”

Dead End’s voice comes out tinny and undeniably heated, his field lightning up with want and interest.

“Percy—“

“Think of it as a benefit,” he told his awed partner, gentling pushing him to the bed as he straddled Dead End’s waist, allowing his servos to explore his warming frame, allowed his scope’s sensors to note the way heat pools in Dead End’s interface array, growing hotter, turning into shades of a deep ember, a flickering fire promising much more than life. “You cared for me. Now it’s my turn that I take care of you.”

He’s very thorough when he wants to be and both he and Dead End don’t mind these turn of events.

Not at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine’s Day. I hope you all get those delicious discounted post-Valentine’s treats.


End file.
